


Valentine's Date

by tei



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tei/pseuds/tei
Summary: AtS S5, following Destiny. Spike decided enough is enough, and sets up a date.





	Valentine's Date

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an "anything Valentine's Day" challenge at Elysian Fields. 
> 
> Concrit welcome, I am new at this whole smut-writing thing :D
> 
> Also, I literally remember nothing about AtS, so for all I know this might make no sense in the timeline, don't even tell me.

The Mountain Dew was the last straw.

In the end, Spike figured, it didn’t really matter how he told Buffy that he was back. However he did it, she was still going to punish him somehow for not contacting her sooner. He certainly deserved it.

Harmony set the whole thing up. She was surprisingly adept at compartmentalizing her work from her personal life, and booked him plane tickets to Rome along with a Valentine’s day reservation at a very fancy brunch place with a minimum of dirty looks— well, considering. 

Now he just needed to lure Buffy there. 

At 10:05 AM on the morning of February 14th, Spike was fidgeting, sitting alone at a table at La Veranda, a trendy spot just steps away from the Vatican. There was a robust network of underground tunnels in use by the local vampire population, which he had used to get to the place and which proved conclusively that vamps really will live anywhere— the repulsive force of all of the crosses in the Holy City felt like the heat of a campfire he was sitting just a little too close to. Still, that was hardly his biggest worry. 

Andrew had promised she would be here. He had thought that he was promising a meeting between his boss and and a reclusive but potentially instrumental demonic arms dealer, of course, and thank God the boy was just clueless enough to not think it odd that said arms dealer insisted on meeting for brunch on February the 14th, but Andrew had said that Buffy would be there. She was five minutes late, and Spike had felt every single one of them. 

He felt Buffy before he saw her. Funny how he had never noticed that before— but she invaded on the edges of his consciousness just like a vamp would, and from the moment he felt it he was absolutely sure it was her. He stared at the door and watched as if in slow-motion as it opened. She was distracted, fooling with a cell phone, and then drew up short as she sensed a vampire. He saw her right hand twitch towards the hem of her dress, underneath which there was doubtless a stake concealed in a thigh-holster. Then she saw him. 

For a moment her face was simply a mask of blank shock, and then she spun on her heel and ran right back out the door. 

Spike sat stunned, a heavy rock of dread settling in his stomach. He had been wrong to come here, wrong to surprise her, wrong maybe even to have done anything other than fade away into the void. He wondered how long he was going to sit here and wait, just in case she came back— but who was he kidding. He knew himself well enough to know that the answer was until they bloody well kicked him out. 

It took him a while, and two iterations of his waiter politely asking him if he was still waiting for someone, before he realized she was still close. He could feel her still, her power shining through the ambient noise of the Vatican’s insane number of crosses. He strolled as nonchalantly as he could across the restaurant floor, past the bathrooms, and cautiously peeked out the back door into the alley behind the restaurant. 

Before he could see anything, some sort of fabric was thrown over his head (a coat?) and he was dragged, bundled in protection against the morning sun, and stuffed down what must have been the opening to the very tunnel that he had used to get here. 

When he could see again, he was looking into the face of the Slayer, and it was glorious.

She was very close to him, and she was crying. 

“Hello, pet,” he said. 

She reached up and touched his forehead with one finger, frowning through the tears that were leaking freely from her eyes. “You’re really you,” she said. 

“Am.”

“Show me your face.” Her eyes were desperate, and there was no question what she meant. He slipped into game face, and her finger continued tracing the ridges on his forehead, trailing down to touch his fangs, gingerly, almost reverently. She brought her other hand up to his head and tangled her fist in his hair, and then her mouth was on his. 

He tasted blood before he had time to retract his fangs and when he did she made a strangled noise of protest, and so he brought them back. He tried to be gentle as she clung to him desperately, nicking her lips and tongue repeatedly as she devoured his mouth. Her tears ran down her face and mixed with her blood, and the small part of him still capable of some kind of rational thought knew it was the most precious elixir he had ever sipped. 

“How could you have thought that I could just show up in a restaurant,” she gasped, pulling away, “and see you, and eat brunch, like everything was normal?”

Spike swept his tongue down her exposed neck, carefully avoiding puncturing the skin while sucking on it hard enough to leave a mark. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back to give him access, and he backed her up until she was supported by the brick wall behind her. “Because I’m a bloody wanker with no sense of occasion, clearly,” he growled.

Her knees seemed about to buckle any moment. “Spike,” she whispered, “How?”

He was slowly kissing his way down her chest, licking the spot where the neckline of her dress concealed the curve of her breasts. “That amulet,” he said. “It kept me. Brought me back. There were…complications.” He brought his face back up to meet hers, placing a knee gently in between her thighs to help support her. “I’m here now, love.”

Her eyes opened and she leaned forward to grab him by the shoulders, bringing their faces back together. “Show me,” she said into his mouth. “Spike, show me, show me, show me.” Her hands scrabbled at his dress shirt, ripping the buttons and awkwardly bunching the fabric at his arms as she tried to pull it off. He complied, but murmured, “Shh… no need to rush, pet… we’ve got all the time in the world now.” He trailed his hands down her arms. 

The sting of her slap was a shock. His demon already showing, he forced down the instinctive growl that threatened to emerge from him. “All the time in the world?” She snapped. She was furious, but she was still crying, and the tears softened the edge of her anger. “You weren’t the one who had to live with the knowledge— who had to live with— who had to _live_.” She was shaking hike a leaf. “I thought you were gone— oh god, Spike—“

He shut her up with a kiss, this one not at all concerned with being gentle. She needed this, and for once their needs were perfectly aligned. He wanted to take her, to devour her, and to hold her gently as she cried. And he could do them all in their proper order. 

He pulled her dress off over her head, Buffy lifting her arms to let it slide off. He caught her wrists and held them up, shifting his weight so that every part of his body pressed her firmly against the wall. She made a sound that was half a moan and half a sob. His erection was pressing against her and she fumbled with his buckle, pulling down his jeans enough for him to step out of them as she pulled off her panties. He wanted to step back and just look at her, commit her to memory, but there would be time for that later. He knelt down on the dirty stone floor of the tunnel and slid back into his human face, curling his hands around the inside of her thighs to spread the lips of her pussy for his tongue. He clamped his lips over her clitoris and sucked gently, eliciting groans from Buffy as he lapped at her juices. 

She didn’t let him stay there for long, though. “ _Spike_ ,” she hissed, tugging at his shoulders. “Come on, please—“

Spike stood, readying his own erection as he soothed her face with kisses. “Alright then, love. Just wanted to get my girl ready.”

_My girl._ The words seemed miraculous as they slipped from his mouth. Half an hour ago he had been wondering if she would even want to see him again. Now she was his girl. He held back a sob of his own. 

Buffy noticed his emotion, and loosened her grip on his shoulders. She suddenly looked almost remorseful, and leaned in to his chest. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to rush you.Thank you.”

If Spike had been able to look in a mirror, he felt sure he would find out what he looked like when he was well and truly shocked. Buffy was apologizing?

“I just…” whispered Buffy, “I’ve imagined this moment so many times. Fantasized so many ways of you not being truly gone, what I would say and do to you first. And now that it’s here…” she exhaled sharply, a not-quite laugh. “I forgot to say any of my elegant declarations of love, and just jumped your bones.” She pulled back to look into his face. “Vintage Buffy, huh?”

Spike could only stare. “Declarations of…”

“Declarations of love, Spike,” Buffy said softly. “Or did you think I was joking, back in Sunnydale?”

Spike squeezed his eyes shut, lost for words. Fortunately, he didn’t need them. Instead, he picked her up gently at the waist and settled her legs on his hips. He stared into her face as he slowly pushed into her.

He started rocking gently, seeing how slow he could go before she got frustrated and started thrusting for herself. She didn’t. Instead she simply met his movements, occasionally closing her eyes and savouring the feeling of his cock slipping in and out of her. 

“You’re being gentle with me, love,” he observed. 

“It’s what you deserve,” she said quietly, as if to herself and not him. 

The implications of that were too much for Spike to unpack— at least, while he was still hilt-deep in Buffy. “I deserve lots of things,” he said, leering at her, “not all of them gentle.” He sped up his pace, pressing her insistently back against the wall with every stroke. She started panting, her hands gripping his shoulders with enough force to leave bruises. 

“Please, Spike.” Her eyes were wide as saucers. “Please, have me.”

He was already buried deep inside her. He hardly dared believe that she was asking for what he thought she was. 

She answered his question by grabbing his head and pressing his mouth to her throat. 

He didn’t give himself time to think about it, just did it, as he would do pretty much anything in the world that she asked of him, at this point: sliding his fangs out and piercing her skin in one go, drinking in her scream and her blood as one substance. 

Buffy writhed as if she were trying to get away, but her arms were around his shoulders pulling him closer. She was sobbing in earnest now, her hips grinding against him incoherently. It was all Spike could do to just keep on, keep pounding Buffy against the wall with and keep puling long draughts of her blood into his belly. He had no concept of the passing of time except that her grip on him was getting, if anything, even stronger. When she came, she bit into _him_ ; her blunt little teeth actually breaking the skin of his shoulder as she cried out. 

The pain was what pushed him over the edge; he tore his fangs from her to scream his own release, using all his weight to keep her pressed against the wall until they were both spent and shaking.

Spike lapped at the wound on her neck, which was already starting to heal. After a moment’s hesitation, Buffy followed his lead, licking soothingly at the bite marks she had left on him. Spike watched her face, expecting disgust at the taste of his blood. Instead, she merely looked content.

When he was no longer bleeding, she rested her head on his shoulder, turning her face towards him to smile gently. “Thank you,” she said. 

“Thank you,” he whispered back. It seemed almost inadequate, such a small and banal phrase to acknowledge the monumental moment that had just passed between them.

As if she could read his mind, Buffy reached up a hand to stroke his face and said, “We’ll have all the time in the world to talk about it.”

For the first time, Spike felt himself beginning to tear up. _All the time in the world._

“So,” she said, “Do you think they’re holding your table for you?”

Spike grinned. “I think we can convince them to find some room,” he said. Her smile was incandescent. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Buffy.”


End file.
